


Safe Behind Bars

by TreasureHunter



Series: Les Mis Soulmate AU [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (Not soulmates yet), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, First Meetings, Gen, Jail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:35:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25882933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TreasureHunter/pseuds/TreasureHunter
Summary: Enjolras spends a night in jail. There he shares his cell with an... intriguing individual.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Pre-Relationship - Relationship
Series: Les Mis Soulmate AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1878214
Comments: 4
Kudos: 60





	Safe Behind Bars

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this oneshot (and a few others) instead of working on my main soulmate fic. This is the disaster that is Enjolras' and Grantaire's first meeting. In jail, because where else?
> 
> This is part of my soulmate AU, but no actual soulmate-stuff happens yet. Or rather, this is where they should've found each other but didn't.
> 
> The title comes from Stars, because it's just so fitting. Enjoy!

Bloodied and bruised, Enjolras stumbles into the cell and hears the sharp click of the door locking behind him. Heavy footsteps march away into the distance.

He catches himself with his hands, but pays the price as his sore ribs flare up in pain. Eyes closed, he takes a few moments to compose himself. Inhales, exhales. Again. Blood drips down his face into his eyes and he angrily wipes it away before taking in his surroundings.

He’s in a fairly standard holding cell. Bare walls, bare floor, small high window that lets in a sliver of full-moon light. A low cot with another person sprawled wide.

Enjolras squints. He’s been arrested before; this is not the first time a rally went south. It’s the first one that took until nightfall to process, partly because of the number of people arrested, and he supposes it’s therefore not surprising they started doubling the cells.

Figuring it’s another protestant, he walks the two paces required to cross over towards the cot, intent on speaking about the cause, the rally, next steps, when the sudden and unmistakable smell of alcohol hits him. He freezes, uncertain what to do and angry at the police for putting him in with a drunkard.

Though, upon reflection, it’s not so strange they separated the leaders of the protest, and Enjolras has made himself quite conspicuous. But still. Someone sleeping out their intoxication? He’s almost insulted.

Forcefully pushing those feeling down, Enjolras reminds himself he doesn’t know the man’s story. He might’ve just lost someone he cares about, or attended a celebration that got out of hand. There are a thousand reasons why someone’s blackout drunk in a police cell in the middle of the night.

In the moonlight he can just about make out the man’s features. Curly hair splays all over the concrete bunk, and wide eyes set in a broad face are now closed in sleep. His mouth hangs open and a little rivulet of drool gathers on his stubbled cheek. Disgusted, Enjolras turns away, except there’s not much space to turn away to. In the end he sinks down against the wall on the other side of the cell, still barely a meter away from the other man. Who just started snoring softly. Enjolras cannot believe his life.

With nothing else to do, and with the cot completely occupied, he leans his head back against the wall and tries to get some sleep. It’s been a long day full of excitement and adrenaline, and even though his head is still buzzing, the exhaustion slowly sets in. In the dark, and to the rhythm of the other man’s snores, he lulls himself into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

He wakes from the terrible ache in his neck that informs him sleeping against a concrete wall might not have been the smartest idea. The rest of his body agrees too, the bruises from the previous day making themselves known in the most obnoxious way possible. At least his nose has stopped bleeding, but his shirt’s still covered in red.

He stretches and groans and a voice says, “Good morning.”

Startled, Enjolras swings his head around, ignoring his protesting neck. The other man - the drunkard - is no longer spread-eagling the bunk, but instead seems to press in on himself as he sits there, looking at him. He’d completely forgotten about him.

In the pale just-after-dawn light the guy looks terrible. Red cheeks and heavy bags under his eyes and a truly magnificent headache, if the way his hand is pressed to his head is anything to go by. He’s also about the same age as Enjolras.

“Good morning,” he returns, for what else can he say? He’s not about to make nice and socialize with the other, has no desire to discover the man’s life story, but he can be polite.

Apparently, the guy, who still reeks of alcohol as his nose informs him, has other ideas about that. With a vague hand gesture he somehow encompasses the entirety of Enjolras. “What did you do, then?”

Enjolras follows his gaze down, to the bloodstains that shine wetly in the warm golden light. “Nothing,” he says, staring straight at the guy. He’s been told that his gaze is a very effective deterrent, but the man doesn’t even blink.

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” he replies airily. “What was it? Barfight? Girl you hit on had a possessive boyfriend? You’re the possessive boyfriend?” His eyes grow wide. “You’re not a serial killer, are you?”

“Shut up.” He sighs, gazing up at the ceiling. He’s not going to get out of this conversation, is he? Perhaps if he just goes along with it, the man will stop asking questions and fill in completely wrong answers himself, which is even worse. “I was at the rally,” he says in the end.

“…Rally?” the other guy repeats, blinking slowly. “Can’t say I heard anything about a rally last night. Huh.”

“I don’t have to ask what happened to you,” Enjolras says snidely.

The man puts his hands up. “No need to get snappy.” He grins. “Doesn’t look good on you. Though,” he stops, considering, “It’d be about the only thing that doesn’t look good on you.”

“That’s it? You’re not even denying you were blackout drunk only a few hours ago?” Enjolras makes the executive decision to completely ignore the backhanded compliment about his looks. He has no idea how to deal, let alone respond, to that.

The guy shrugs. “There’s not much to deny, is there? I mean, you clearly saw the whole thing,” and here he gestures to himself, “so I’m not gonna convince you otherwise anyway. Besides,” he adds, “it’s not like it’s something I’m ashamed of.”

“You did end up in a cell,” Enjolras points out.

“Well, I admit that was unplanned. Still, what’s life without a little adventure?”

“A life without a criminal record.”

The guy grins. “Good one. Remind me again what you’re doing here?”

Despite himself, he snorts, and the guy’s face lights up as the patch of sunlight continues its long trek over the bare wall. He has to admit, in the privacy of his own thoughts, that the guy is funny. Clever, too, by the looks of it.

“Touché.” And, because they’re talking already and Enjolras hates to keep referring to the guy as ‘the guy’, he asks, “What’s your name?”

Instead of giving a straight answer, the guy tuts. “One doesn’t kiss and tell,” he says with a wink, and Enjolras sees red.

A few deep breaths against his aching ribs suffice to bring him back to earth, while at the same time calling attention to the multitude of other small hurts and irritations. Groaning, he pushes himself off against the wall until he’s in the middle of the cell. The other guy observes silently, but shrinks back a little when Enjolras glares at him. Good. Reaching up, he awkwardly massages his own neck.

“Do you want help with that?” For the first time, the guy sounds sincere. But Enjolras is angry, at the guy for being so obnoxious, at himself for getting arrested, and at the situation in general. So, he says nothing and continues stretching amateurishly to ease his protesting muscles.

The sun continues its upward journey for a few minutes of blessed silence, and the cell is bathed in a warm pink light.

“If you extend your leg a bit more, you’ll feel better afterward,” the guy offers timidly.

Enjolras half-turns, and sees the other watching him with a wary intensity. “How would you know?”

“I sport a lot.”

Not deigning to reply, Enjolras does push his right leg a bit forward. Subtly, but the guy sees anyway. And he was right, for immediately he does feel the difference. Grinding his teeth together, he silently continues his stretches.

“My name’s Grantaire,” the other guy speaks after some long minutes have passed. This close Enjolras can easily smell the drink still hanging around him, but the guy doesn’t seem inebriated anymore. Grantaire. It’s an unusual name, to say the least.

“Enjolras,” he offers tersely, and gives up. Mindful of his blooming rainbow-coloured bruises, he slides down the wall a second time until he’s once more face-to-face with Grantaire.

They stare at each other, Grantaire at a loss of what to say and Enjolras unwilling to do so. Grantaire has a lot of laugh lines already, he observes. No other wrinkles, though the dark circles look painted under his eyes. After spotting a blotch of yellow on his temple and a streak of purple on his hand, Enjolras reconsiders his conclusion.

It’s as good a conversation topic as any, and Grantaire’s stare is unusually unrelenting and makes him want to fidget. Until they’re let out of this cell, they’ve got to deal with each other before saying goodbye and never see each other again. Besides, he reasons, this is a prime chance to win a new heart for their cause.

“So. Do you paint?” Enjolras wants to slap himself for the way that came out. Who in their right mind would consent to talk about their private life, when their offered help has already been rudely rebutted? Especially when it’s already made clear they don’t want to share any details.

But contrary to expectation, Grantaire lights up as he immediately launches into a passionate spiel about paint textures, colour mixing and brush quality. Enjolras doesn’t understand half of it, but catches himself listening mesmerized to the flow of words. It transforms Grantaire’s entire face: where before red splotches discoloured gaunt cheeks, now a blush emphasizes his sharp cheekbones. Is this how he looks too when he starts speeching? he silently wonders to himself.

Some seven minutes in, when Grantaire has moved on from materials to shading, he cuts himself off mid-sentence and within a second the glow is once more replaced by the sickly drunkard’s pallor. The effect is jarring, and Enjolras has to blink against the sudden change.

“This probably doesn’t interest you at all, does it?” Grantaire asks, and his voice is so small and dejected that even Enjolras’ reputable heart of stone shudders.

“I’ve got no clue what you’re talking about,” he admits honestly, and to his own surprise he sounds almost gentle. “But I do like to see people voice what they’re passionate about. You were very passionate,” he adds with a rueful grin.

Grantaire’s face does a complicated dance of emotions that Enjolras cannot possibly read, especially on someone who’s still a stranger, but it settles on something approaching bashful pride. And then the features morph into curiosity. “What are you passionate about then?”

And this is Enjolras’ opening. Like Grantaire, he starts with the principles on which he recently founded les Amis de l’ABC (Grantaire chuckles at the pun), and then hops topic to topic. Grantaire listens attentively but doesn’t interrupt. He talks for maybe an hour as the sun steadily continues its climb in the sky, and somehow manages to mention every societal issue he’s had at least a passing interest in solving.

By the time he finishes, footsteps walk down the hall and stop in front of their cell. Both Grantaire and Enjolras look up at the figure towering above their seated positions on the floor, the last words petering out in the chilly air. He stares down at them for a moment too long, and propped against the wall, Enjolras is glad the officer can’t see him shiver.

The officer then produces a keycard and swipes it across the pad keeping the cell locked. Enjolras stands quickly and Grantaire follows at a more leisurely pace, slowly unfurling from the almost impossibly tiny ball he’d been curled into.

“Come with me,” the officer says, and leads them away from the small cell block, filled with protesters still sleeping, to the processing area. Two more police agents wait there. Enjolras inspects his coat, wallet and mobile phone with as much dignity as he can muster while still covered in his own dried blood, before signing them off. Beside him, Grantaire chats almost casually with the officer processing him, calling her by name and - if he didn’t mishear - informing about her new trained police dog.

Standing outside with his stuff and the promise of a fine being posted, Enjolras wants to go home, take a long, hot shower and fall asleep in his own soft bed. It is cold and the sun still hangs low in the sky, illuminating but not warming. Heavy rain clouds come up from the east. Now that he’s out of Grantaire’s permeating alcohol-reek, he smells the iron as flakes of crusted blood break off and drift down.

Not even to himself can he adequately explain why he’s waiting on the doorstep of a police station for a drunk whom he happened to share an overnight cell with. Grantaire takes his sweet time and Enjolras is forced to put his trampled coat around his shoulders as it starts to drizzle. The weather hadn’t seemed so cold and wet from the cell window.

When the rotating doors of the station finally open to spit out his erstwhile cellmate, Enjolras is scowling and ready to give Grantaire a piece of his mind. Grantaire’s mouth falls open in surprise when he catches sight of him, like this is the first time ever someone’s waited up for him.

Enjolras’ harsh words die in his throat.

“Did you wait up for me? Why would you do that?” The thread of wonder makes him seriously reevaluate his impression of Grantaire. He’d had him pinned as a socializer, someone who despite his unfortunate facial structure was always the buzzing centre of a large, laughing crowd. And while that might still be true, he increasingly gets the sense that outside such social gatherings, Grantaire doesn’t have many friends.

He realizes he takes too long to answer when Grantaire’s face falls, muscles tightening one by one, and the glitter in his eyes fades out.

“Of course, you’re waiting to be picked up,” he says with a nod to the phone still in Enjolras’ hand. “I shouldn’t have presumed.” He turns away, jacket pulled close against the rain, and walks in the direction directly opposite to the one leading to the apartment he shares with Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

Enjolras knows he has to act quickly if he is to… what? They share nothing except a night in a cell, and yet Grantaire fascinates him, like he’s a puzzle just waiting to be solved. Grantaire never got to voice his thoughts on his plans for les Amis, after all.

“Hey!” he calls to Grantaire’s back. A few moments later, as if he’s not quite sure he’s the one being addressed, Grantaire stops. “Do you know the cafe Musain?” Enjolras pants as he jogs to catch up.

“I’ve heard of it,” Grantaire replies cautiously casual.

“We - that is, les Amis and I - hold our meetings there every Monday and Friday evening, starting at eight, and we’re always looking for new members.”

“Are you… are you asking me to come?”

“Yes?” Enjolras hates how it comes out more like a question than anything else and his stomach churns as Grantaire contemplates his answer.

“I might,” he says after an eternity, “drop by sometime.” He shrugs while Enjolras for some reason feels so light he could fly away. He almost puts his hand on Grantaire’s shoulder but the gesture feels still too familiar, and he aborts the motion with a vague pang of regret he can’t quite place.

A gust of wind quickly and effectively pulls his thoughts back to the trottoir as he shivers. “I should be going home,” he says, and Grantaire nods. He’s wearing a scruffy-looking leather jacket that’s seen better times, and it’s not much more effective in blocking the wind and rain than Enjolras’ own light coat. Silently he curses the unpredictable autumn weather that cuts this interaction short.

“I’ll see you soon?” he implores.

“Yeah, soon,” Grantaire affirms, and then walks away. He doesn’t look back, but Enjolras feels accomplished in a way he hasn’t felt ever before, and doesn’t know why. Even the failed rally isn’t enough to bring down his mood. Despite the frigidity he walks home with a spring in his step and smiles widely when Combeferre and Courfeyrac practically fall over him with worry.

Up and until Grantaire shows up at a meeting, Enjolras is unwilling to share him. He’s never been jealous or possessive, but something in him protests vehemently against the idea of his friends meeting his one-night cellmate. He’s still thinking about it when he finally washes the blood off and feels his body relax under the shower’s hot spray.

Don’t be ridiculous, he tells himself, and forces the thoughts away. His friends will meet Grantaire soon enough and that’ll be the end of all this nonsense. The rest of the day Enjolras takes it easy, reading a book for his course and taking notes, and if now and then his thoughts drift to Grantaire, about what he’ll say about les Amis, about applying all that witnessed passion to bettering the lives of others, well, then no one needs to know.


End file.
